My Kidney, His Cruel Joke

My Kidney, His Cruel Joke

Moria Anninger

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The dull, constant throb in my side was a painful reminder of the jagged scar hidden beneath my sweater, a small price for the five hundred thousand dollars in my duffel bag-every dime of my savings, every penny from selling all I owned, and the rest from selling a kidney. All of it was for Ethan, who desperately needed treatment tonight. But when I arrived at the luxurious lounge he' d named, "The Gilded Cage," I overheard his voice, rich with amusement, not weak or strained, telling his friends that the "struggling musician" act and fake cancer diagnosis were pure genius to con me into selling a kidney. The world tilted as I realized our two-year love was a meticulously crafted hoax. My sacrifice was for their entertainment. My hand went slack, and the duffel bag, filled with the price of my body, slipped to the plush carpet. I fled to the nearest restroom, the betrayal a raging fire. My hands, meant to heal, had helped destroy me. I looked at the crude bandage under my sweater, a symbol of self-inflicted wounds for a lie. He didn' t need fixing; broken me. The shock gave way to cold rage. They wouldn' t win. They wouldn' t destroy me. As Ethan found me in the restroom, feigning worry about the money, I met his gaze, my voice steady, saying, "Yes, Ethan, I have it. It' s all for you." I would play his game, but this time, I knew the rules.

Introduction

The dull, constant throb in my side was a painful reminder of the jagged scar hidden beneath my sweater, a small price for the five hundred thousand dollars in my duffel bag-every dime of my savings, every penny from selling all I owned, and the rest from selling a kidney. All of it was for Ethan, who desperately needed treatment tonight.

But when I arrived at the luxurious lounge he' d named, "The Gilded Cage," I overheard his voice, rich with amusement, not weak or strained, telling his friends that the "struggling musician" act and fake cancer diagnosis were pure genius to con me into selling a kidney.

The world tilted as I realized our two-year love was a meticulously crafted hoax. My sacrifice was for their entertainment. My hand went slack, and the duffel bag, filled with the price of my body, slipped to the plush carpet. I fled to the nearest restroom, the betrayal a raging fire.

My hands, meant to heal, had helped destroy me. I looked at the crude bandage under my sweater, a symbol of self-inflicted wounds for a lie. He didn' t need fixing; broken me.

The shock gave way to cold rage. They wouldn' t win. They wouldn' t destroy me. As Ethan found me in the restroom, feigning worry about the money, I met his gaze, my voice steady, saying, "Yes, Ethan, I have it. It' s all for you." I would play his game, but this time, I knew the rules.

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From Bait to Queen: The Rejected Mate's Destiny

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To the Dark Moon Pack, I wasn't just invisible; I was a stain. Dean Lee, the Alpha designed for my soul, treated me like a shameful secret while he paraded his mistress, Karina, in red silk. The night of the Charity Auction, Dean bought my late mother's moonstone pendant—the only thing I had left of her—for a hundred thousand dollars. I begged him for it. Instead, he clasped it around Karina's ankle. With a cruel laugh, Karina stomped her stiletto heel, crushing the moonstone into dust. Dean just watched, his eyes cold and unfeeling. "It was just a cheap rock," he said. "I'll buy you diamonds." But the cruelty didn't stop at emotional torture. When rogues attacked, Dean used me as live bait to distract them from Karina. He threw me into the Blood Pit, a gladiator arena, to fight a massive Feral wolf while he sat in the VIP box with Karina on his lap. "She won't last three minutes," I heard him say through our dying bond. He watched with bored detachment as I was ripped apart, refusing to save me even as I screamed his name. He saved the mistress and drowned the mate. I died on that arena floor. Or so he thought. Years later, the mysterious and world-renowned artist "H.Y." returned to New York for a gallery opening. When Dean saw me on stage, he rushed forward, tears streaming down his face, trying to claim the wife he had mourned. "Hayley," he choked out, reaching for me. "You're alive. You're mine." I didn't cry. I didn't run. I unleashed a shockwave of ancient White Wolf energy that blasted him across the room, shattering the glass displays. "I don't take orders from dogs anymore," I said, looking down at him. "I, Hayley York, hereby reject you."

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